Three is a War(66)

Just like he took the wedding gown.

I rub the ache in my chest as a sad smile bounces my lips. God, he’s so sentimental. I’m going to miss that.

I already miss him so much.

The heartache surges anew, swelling my throat. I swallow it down and hurry back to the bedroom. I’ll be leaving behind more than a ring and gown. The MG Midget doesn’t have a backseat, and the trunk only holds two bags if they’re small. The extravagant wardrobe, the dance costumes and supplies—all of it stays.

I pass the door to the dance studio and falter. My hands twitch at my sides, and I turn back, staring at the room with longing.

The room he built for me.

One more dance.

I move mindlessly to the stereo and select What Is Love by V Bozeman.

Then I dance slowly, tearfully, through the room, committing everything to memory—the give of the flooring, the glow of the sun through windows, the smoothness of the ballet bars, and the echo of the music through the high ceiling.

When the song ends, I dry my eyes and force myself to leave. To leave it all behind.

An hour later, I back the Midget out of the garage and pull onto the dirt road, weeping. The moment I can’t see the house anymore, I burst into ruthless, shoulder-shaking sobs. Then I grab my phone and call my sister.

Bree talks to me through most of the four-hour drive. She wants me to stay with her until I move my things out of storage. She wants to take care of me.

She’s done that enough for one lifetime. Yeah, I’m sad. I’m fucking miserable. But I’ve got this. I can do it all by myself. Even if it means sleeping on the floor.

As my house comes into view, I’m hit with a poignant wave of nostalgia. It’s been eleven months. I wonder how my neighbors are doing? God, I hope no one has died.

Someone’s been keeping up with the landscaping. I pull into the driveway, squinting at the cut lawn and trimmed hedges. Did Cole hire a management company to take care of the property?

I park the car and enter through the back door, shivering against the cold December wind. It’s not any warmer in the house. Shit, I didn’t even consider the possibility that the utilities would be off.

As I race through the kitchen, I flip the light switch, and the ceiling bulb flickers on. Yes! In the hall, I push the thermostat to hell hot. Then I take a deep breath and step into the bedroom.

There’s a bed and other furniture. At least, I think that’s furniture beneath all the white cloth. With a burst of focus, I start yanking off the sheets, moving from room to room, revealing more furniture and scattering clouds of dust. Everything is mine. It’s all the stuff I moved to storage.

Given the layers of dust, he did this a long time ago. Like he knew I’d come back to the house we shared.

Our house.

If I inhale deep enough, I can smell him. I feel him in the air and hear him moving through the rooms. It’s his spirit, like he’s dead all over again. That’s what it feels like.

The tears flood in, and I let them fall freely as I bring in my bags from the car and curl up in bed.

I need to give myself time to grieve Cole.

Then, when I’m ready, I’ll take the next step.

If I’m brave enough, it’ll be a step into The Regal Arch Casino.





I search through the crowd of restaurant patrons for a tall, scowling silhouette. My feet haven’t even crossed the threshold to Bissara, and I’m already violently shaking in my high-heeled booties.

Around me, slot machines ding and clang. Cigarette smoke tinges the air, and servers bustle by carrying plates of Moroccan food.

I told myself to take it slow. I took it slow. I’ve been in St. Louis for a month. I survived the holidays with my sister, reconnected with Nikolai, my dance partner, and started volunteering at the homeless shelter again.

There’s been no contact with Cole. No job hunting. No Trace.

If Cole and Trace still talk, Trace knows I’m back. Yet he hasn’t called. Hasn’t shown up.

He moved on.

I’m sweating, nauseous, wracked with ungodly nerves. But I have to do this. I have to know if there’s a chance my heart will beat again.

Running a hand over my cute gray shirt dress, I tug on the mid-thigh hem and dry my palms on the soft fabric. Where is he?

“Danni?”

I turn toward the feminine voice and find the sweet face of a hostess I knew when I danced here.

“Crystal!” I hug her.

She was here the night Trace proposed to me. I can only imagine the rumors that circulated after our break up.

“You’re back?” She returns the hug, grinning. “Are you dancing here again?”

“Just stopping by.” I stare at the empty stage with an ache that burns in my bones. “Is the position open?”

“Mr. Savoy hasn’t found the right dancer. I bet if you apply—”